Don't Let Them Hold You Down
by BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: Spike gets into some trouble when an angry mob attacks the car he's in. Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike OT4 Slash. Cross posted on AO3.


A/N: Hello, readers! Let me just quick warn you: **THIS IS SLASH**. It involves four men in one relationship. If you don't like it, then please don't read it. I have about 33 stories, of this ship, written and posted over on Archive Of Our Own. If you like this one, and would like to see the rest of the stories, feel free to drop over to AO3-you can search my username (Same as over here). Anyway, I hope you like this story and have a good day! :)

Spike cringed as the car rocked back and forth, the SUV lurching on its sliced tires, and the protesters screamed and chanted just outside the glass. The metal, which had once seemed thick and protective, now was wickedly gleaming in the sunlight and he knew it was all too thin.

"Guys?" Spike spoke nervously into the mic, and was quickly met by a response.

"Keep the doors shut," Greg snapped and Spike resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but gave vocal approval.

"We're coming to get you, Spike," Ed spoke up, and Sam followed, "Just hold on, buddy."

The car swung wildly under the protester's hands, their fists pounding on the windows, and Spike tried to calm his breathing. His throat was threatening to swell up, his stomach twisted in knots, and he wondered if this was how Lou felt when he was stepping back.

He could see the shields coming closer, but the glass shattered behind him and greedy hands grabbed him and pulled him over the jagged glass and out of the car. A howl of pain left his lips as his arms caught on the sharp edges, but he bit his lip and twisted in the crowd's grasp. His name was being screamed from the other side of the car, but when he tried to answer them the hands—covered in his blood—encompassed his mouth.

One of his legs struck someone in the throat and they went down with a choke and that was a mistake because now the crowd was baying even harder for his blood.

His earpiece, with a hiss of static, was ripped from his ear and the cries of his name became much more muddled without it. A hand snaked its way around his throat, an angry voice—replacing his team's voice—in his ear and his vision started to blur as oxygen was denied access to his lungs.

Spike kicked harder, grabbed onto whatever he could, and the hand around his throat disappeared so he gasped in air. This was nothing like roughhousing with the guys; this was life and death, and he was walking a tightrope.

He couldn't hear the team anymore, and it scared him that he was alone in this sea of enraged people but he couldn't focus on that now.

By some miracle, he was near the edge of the crowd (who had moved onto decimating the SUV) and saw freedom just feet away. If he could get free of these hands, these people, he could make a run for it.

So that's what he did.

Spike turned around and kicked the closest person holding onto him and lurched towards the open road and pushed and punched his way through those who tried to pull him back into the sea of people.

Finally, his shoulders were free of hands and he managed to slip his torso free before he jolted into a dead sprint—muscles screaming because he was still oxygen deficient—and didn't look back at the faces who called for his demise.

He hoped that the team had pulled away from the SUV (which was now burning brilliant like a beacon) and were somewhere safe. It kept him going as he ran on, gear slapping against his thighs, even as blood poured from his nose—he didn't even remember that getting broken—and his cuts and his lip.

No one chased him, thankfully, and he found a cop down the street.

"Sir!" He shouted, slowing his pace, and the officer startled at the tactical gear and blood. "Can I use your radio?"

The officer nodded, and quickly handed over the remote before asking if Spike was all right. The bomb tech waved him off, and changed stations on the radio and voices sprung into his ear.

"I don't know where he is!" Sam was screaming, but it didn't sound like he was in the crowd, thank god, "I didn't see him in the car—,"

"A pipe bomb went off in there!" Ed barked back, "We can't be sure—,"

"I'm out," Spike panted into the mic, "I'm on…" he scanned the area even as his team shouted through the speaker, "the intersection of 12th and West."

"Are you hurt?" Greg asked hurriedly and far past concerned, and the officer tapped at his shoulder but Spike waved him off again.

"No—,"

"Sir, you need medical attention, you're bleeding pretty bad…" The officer told him, and waved over a paramedic and Spike groaned.

"Spike!" Ed barked over the comms, and the bomb tech tried to explain but the team wasn't exactly up for listening.

"It's just some cuts, guys, don't worry." Spike said loudly, trying to be heard, "I got pulled over some glass when they grabbed me from the van."

Sam growled on the other side of the speaker, and Spike rolled his eyes but Greg spoke up—a lot calmer than he was a few moments ago.

"Let the medics look you over," the Sergeant ordered—in a voice that Spike didn't dare go against—, "Can you get back here?"

"Yeah," Spike nodded though he knew the team couldn't see it, "Be there soon." _Love you._

Someone let out a bated breath, and the comm conversation returned to crowd control as Spike returned the radio to the fellow officer and allowed the medic to usher him to the ambulance.

Sam laid his head on the desk, the coils of his chest relaxing as Spike's radio clicked off, signaling that it had been shifted to a different station. Greg had a firm grip on his shoulder, and the team let out a collective sigh of relief.

He'd never felt so panicked; never felt his stomach drop so low, his mouth so dry or his voice so lost. He'd charged to the car with the riot officers, ripped open the car door but there was only shattered glass and smoke and blood. The crowd had set the van ablaze and forced them back into the building; and Sam had been forced to return to Ed and Greg without their precious boy. The two hadn't taken it well; shouting and furious. Sam had been fueled by that; saying he would go into the crowd even if it meant going undercover or risking it with a shield while Jules and the others in the room tried to explain the danger.

Then, Spike had come on the radio—panting and pained but alive and whole and away from the fray. Sam had gone limp with hope, and Greg and Ed had sprung on the radio like it was water for a dying man in the desert.

So he raised his head from the table and returned to typing away on the computer, Greg's hand still on his shoulder and Ed's presence to his other side.

"I'll go meet him by the entrance," the older sniper told them before striding out of the room with head held high and the tension from his shoulders and down a little less.

Spike thanked the medic and tried to not trail his fingertips over the bandages on his forehead and arms, ignoring her advice to go and rest. He walked up to the cop he'd borrowed the radio from and asked for a ride. He got a yes, which made Spike smile, and soon the scenery was blurring past his tired eyes and his aches returned to full force but he hid them away.

They entered the building through the back entrance, and Spike was met by Ed. The sniper didn't usually show affection on duty, but Spike was pulled into a tight hug and quickly returned the embrace. They pulled away too quick for both their tastes, but it was dangerous to be open now so Ed patted him on the back like old friends and they jogged to the control room.

Spike could tell that it was paining Greg and Sam to hold back; to not grab him up and hide away where the world couldn't hurt them. They finished the job, tired beyond words, and headed to the base to debrief. It was the longest ride of his life.

Greg pushed the door to his apartment open, and Sam followed in his footsteps—Spike half asleep in his arms—with Ed just behind them. They barely got stripped out of their street clothes, not bothering to try and shower, and fell onto the bed in a mess of limbs.

Naturally, Spike ended up in the middle but tonight they were huddled so close that they probably could have fit on just one of the mattresses. Greg was on his back in the middle, and Spike was resting on his chest—head curled into the sergeant's neck—with Ed and Sam on either side. Hands roamed skin: checking for bruises and bandages and familiar markings.

Surprisingly, Sam fell asleep first but it made sense to Ed and Greg. The young man had been the worst after Spike disappeared into the fight, having seen the blood on the glass and not knowing where the bomb tech was. Ed dropped off next, and then Spike, and Greg laid idly in the realm between sleep and awareness.

"Love you," Spike rumbled in his sleep, and Greg pressed a kiss to his forehead before drawing Ed and Sam closer and they, in turn, held onto Spike firmer.

"Love you, too."


End file.
